


Plait

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: Thorinduil - from Tumblr with love [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, more of the former than of the latter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:29:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4397261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil braids Thorin's hair and attempts to learn something in Khuzdul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plait

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for anonymous prompt on Tumblr a long time ago. Should have posted this here much earlier.

Thorin’s hair is still wet from the bath when Thranduil’s fingers find their way into the dark locks. He pulls a little to make him lean into an embrace. He enjoys wrapping his arms around the Dwarf from behind, tangling their legs together and just sitting there, relaxing together with him for a while. Right now, however, Thranduil is fascinated with the sleek waves of Thorin’s hair that curl ever-so-slightly more than when they are dry. He wraps a dark strand around his finger, curls it and lets it go. He likes the way Thorin’s mane, mostly black with a dash of silver, reflects the dim light in the bedroom. He likes how Thorin sighs softly at the feeling of him playing with his hair.

‘You know how to braid hair?’ The Dwarf asks after a while, when the silence stretches for too long and their heartbeats are the only sound in the room.

'Of course,’ Thranduil scoffs, 'although the braids I have been taught to weave are nothing like the barbaric version your kin is fond of.’

'Barbaric?’ Thorin asks and hums something under his breath, something most certainly offensive, but Thranduil can’t tell what it is since it’s in Khuzdul.

He has lived long enough to discard some of the memories from his lifetime, but even so, he has never had the need – nor the will – to learn the language of Dwarves. Thorin is aware, and he uses that to his advantage: when he wants to be particularly mean, obnoxious or annoying, he speaks words in Khuzdul that Thranduil hardly understands. Some words, yes, he has picked up on – those of a more, ah,  _intimate_ nature, uttered in moments of passion. Others are mystery to him.

'Teach me,’ he requests, tugging very gently at Thorin’s hair.

'Teach you what?’ Thorin asks, turning a little in the embrace to look at him with brows furrowed inquiringly.

Thranduil frowns and pushes him back into the previous, more comfortable position. ‘Teach me Khuzdul,’ he demands. He brushes Thorin’s hair with his fingers, marvelling, not for the first time, at the incredible softness of the dark locks.

'No,’ says Thorin simply and lays his head comfortably on Thranduil’s shoulder. He’s so close now, he can probably hear Thranduil’s heartbeat against his back; warmth is radiating off of his skin even through the thin fabric of his tunic and it’s rather pleasant in the evening chill.

'Teach me,’ Thranduil repeats, as he will not accept being denied something, and especially not this. But he should have known that his Dwarven lover is stubborn; and the more Thranduil wants something, the more likely is Thorin to refuse to give it to him, because he finds amusement and some wicked pleasure in watching Thranduil’s wishes go unfulfilled.

'No,’ Thorin replies indifferently. 'Braid my hair,’ he all but orders and Thranduil wants to say something very rude to him, but instead he reaches for his favourite comb and begins to brush the Dwarf’s soft, dark locks lovingly. Thorin hums softly, a melody that is entirely unfamiliar, when Thranduil weaves small beads of gold into strands of his hair which he then braids; listening to him, the Elvenking feels peaceful and warm. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing; the feeling is new and even if not completely foreign to him, it still is not something he is used to.

'I would teach you my people’s language if you asked,’ he mutters softly, leaning down to breathe in the clean scent of Thorin’s hair.

'Yes, you would,’ the Dwarf admits, then returns to his song. It has words now, harsh and rough, but surprisingly melodic. Khuzdul is a language that seems so unfit for singing, and yet on Thorin’s tongue, the sounds form words and the words form stanzas, and the song they make is nostalgic and beautiful.

He wishes he understood what Thorin is singing about, but even so, he does not interrupt as he finishes braiding his hair and then closes his eyes to enjoy and appreciate the deep, slightly hoarse voice of his lover’s. He smiles and tries to recognize words which he has heard before –  _gold, gems, mountains, enemy –_  and finishes plaiting Thorin’s hair. He admires his handiwork: three separate braids gathered into one mid-length, adorned with gold that glows like stars in the dark tresses.

'Why do you want me to teach you?’ Thorin asks later, when their position is reversed and it’s Thranduil’s hair that is being brushed, played with, tugged on. For such a long time, he has hated the touch of another on his hair, but when the Dwarf combs through its length, it feels pleasant.

_Because I wish to understand all you speak to me when you’re too far gone to stop yourself,_ Thranduil thinks, but doesn’t say.

_Because I wish to know all there is to know about you, and the time given to us is too short,_ he thinks and doesn’t give voice to.

_Because I will lose you too soon,_ he realizes and leans back into Thorin’s embrace, closing his eyes and trying to forget. It’s not in an Elven nature to live in a moment; yet, with Thorin, he learns.

'That song I sang, it was about you,’ the Dwarf says. His fingers ghost briefly over the tips of Thranduil’s ears when they gather hair. 'I would weave gold into your hair, but there is starlight in your hair that makes gold pale. I would gift you priceless gems, yet there is starlight in your eyes that makes all jewels lose value. I would conquer all your enemies, I would cross mountains, I would go to the end of the world if you asked, for the starlight in your soul makes my heart sing,’ he recites.

Thranduil doesn’t need to look at him to know Thorin’s face is all flushed in embarrassment. Instead of amused, however, he is touched. He remembers, in that moment, the young prince of Erebor he met many decades ago: careless, arrogant, but so enthusiastic in his youth, so creative with his poetry and music that he would perform to entertain the guests of the King Under the Mountain. Oh, the glorious past! Before the dragon, before the darkness returned, everything used to be so bright and hopeful.

'I will teach you,’ Thorin promises softly and kisses the back of his neck.

They stay up well into the night. Thranduil awkwardly repeats words and phrases after Thorin with horrible pronunciation which doesn’t get much better with exposure. Thorin laughs, braids and then undoes his hair.

'Finally, it seems I found something you are terrible at,’ he says in mirth.

Thranduil replies, ‘ _I despise you_ ,’ in Khuzdul that sounds strained and barely recognizable. But what he actually thinks is,  _I love you_. He doesn’t say it.

Thorin’s hair is yet more black than silver in the dim light of Thranduil’s bedroom.

He will say it yet.

There is time.


End file.
